Stay Tuned for Murder

by Kennedy, Mary

  For a moment, I was puzzled. “She was here? Here, as in another lifetime?” I knew that Chantel believed in reincarnation, but I didn’t think Nick did.

  Nick snorted. “Hardly. I’m talking about this lifetime. I found someone at the high school who thinks she remembers her.

  “So Chantel might have lived here when she was young?”

  “Maybe. She would have been a teenager. But we don’t know this yet, not for sure.”

  This was interesting idea, and my mind scrambled to make sense of it. “You sound like you believe it.” I knew Nick had excellent sources, but this really seemed like a stretch. If Chantel had been born and raised in Cypress Grove, why was she keeping everyone in the dark? Unless, of course, she’d come back here for some dark, ulterior reason.

  “That’s what my source says. I’m surprised no one in town has picked up on it, though.”

  “Maybe someone did,” I said, remembering Irina’s comment. I watched as Nick devoured a shrimp toast, his brows knitted in concentration. “Vera Mae thought she recognized her.” Maybe what I thought had been a chance comment was actually a bombshell.

  “She thought she recognized her?” Nick reached into his pocket for his notebook. “From where? What name was she using?”

  “I don’t know. It wasn’t that specific, just an offhand comment.” I gave a little dismissive wave of my hand. “I figured Vera Mae meant Chantel reminded her of someone she’d seen on television or in the movies. You know, a celebrity. It never occurred to me that she meant a real person, living here in Cypress Grove.” I made a mental note to ask Vera Mae for an explanation as soon as I got back to the studio.

  Nick squinted at his notes and frowned. “This isn’t much to go on, but I can try to dig a little deeper.” He looked around the crowded parlor. “If Chantel really did live here before, wouldn’t someone here recognize her? How much could she have changed over the years?”

  I shrugged. “If Chantel is really in her mid-forties, it might have been thirty years ago. And we don’t even have a name to go on. That Carla Krasinski name could have been an alias.” Just like Chantel Carrington is an alias, I thought. Trying to get a handle on Chantel was like trying to pin Jell-O to a wall.

  “So what’s next?” Nick said, his words wrapped around a mouthful of flaky cheese biscuits. I was surprised to see that he’d already scarfed down half of the hors d’oeuvres on his plate. “I can ask my friend in L.A. to go deeper, but it might take a few days.”

  “A good turnout for poor Althea,” an elderly woman murmured when I stood up to get another cup of tea. She looked like half the women in the room, probably mid-eighties, with tightly curled white hair and glasses.

  “Did you know her well?”

  “Oh, yes, my dear,” she said, laying her hand on my arm for a moment. “I’ve always admired the way she kept this place going.” She glanced around the room, taking in the old-timey furnishings and knickknacks. “She’s kept it just the way it was when it was built. Quite an achievement.”

  “Yes, it was.” A lightbulb went on over my head, and I thought about the Joshua Riggs painting. “You’ve visited here a lot, right? I mean, to the historical society?”

  “Yes, of course,” she replied, looking puzzled. “Dozens of times, why?”

  “I need to ask you something.” I guided her toward the front hall. “Take a good look around.” She raised her eyebrows, and I said quickly, “I know this sounds silly, but just bear with me. Does anything look different to you?”

  She peered at the heavy mahogany Parsons table, the porcelain umbrella stand, the dried-flower arrangement. “I don’t think so,” she said slowly. “Not much has changed in this front hall in fifty years. I told Althea she needed to thin out these paintings. It’s hard to appreciate them when she has so much wall space covered. All the way from the floor to the ceiling.” She allowed herself a small chuckle. “Althea wouldn’t hear of it, though. She had her own way of doing things. Some people called her obstinate, but I think of it as being principled.”

  “Take your time,” I pleaded. “Take a good look.”

  Then she spotted it. “Oh, yes, I see it now. It’s this landscape.” She pointed her finger at the painting that was hanging right above us. “That’s what’s different.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “I’m positive. Althea had very definite taste in art. She loved watercolors and she was quite fond of landscapes, but not dark, dreary ones.” She took a step closer. “Someone’s switched the paintings, you see.” She pointed to the Joshua Riggs. “This one used to be on the right of the pond scene. Now it’s on the left.”

  Bingo. That was just what I’d thought.

  “Are you sure?” I could hardly keep the excitement out of my voice.

  “I certainly am.” She wrinkled her nose in disgust. “This dreadful thing should be banished back to the basement.”

  “What do you know about this painting?” I said, pointing to the muddy landscape.

  “Well, I’m surprised that Althea would move it. She liked everything in its place. Very persnickety. She talked about getting it reframed. I know that was on her to-do list.” She paused. “Odd that she would move it, though.” She took a step back and studied the wall. “Maybe she was trying to get a different feel with the arrangement. I don’t think she succeeded, though. Now the whole collection looks unbalanced.”

  “Very odd.” My mind was whirring with possibilities. “If she did have it reframed, where would she go? Someone local, or would she send it out?”

  “Oh, there’s only one place in town to go. Chris Hendricks on Water Street does all the framing for the historical society. He knew her taste. She liked simplicity, clean lines, nothing ornate. But I know she didn’t get it reframed. This is the same dreadful frame as before.” She hesitated, glancing over my shoulder. “Is there anything else you’d like to ask me?” She flashed an apologetic smile. “Because I see that my ride is waiting for me.”

  “You’ve answered all my questions. Thank you so much. You’ve been wonderful, very helpful. May I write down your name and phone number?”

  “Here, take a card, my dear. I’m Lucille Whittier.”

  “Maggie Walsh.” I scrambled for a card, but she stopped me.

  “Oh, I know who you are, dear. I love your show. I listen to it every day.” She gave a fluttery little wave and joined another woman in a pastel pantsuit who was moving toward the front door. “If you have any more questions, just call me. I’m home almost every day.”

  “Thanks. I’ll do that.”

  I took a quick look around the dimly lit hall. It was dark and oppressive, and the massive furniture didn’t help lighten the atmosphere. I glanced at the Parsons table. It looked like it needed a good dusting, and the lace doily on the top had a grayish tinge around the edges. Odd to think that someone might have crocheted it a hundred years ago. It moved slightly when I touched it, and some flakes of blue confetti inched out onto the dark wooden surface. Strange.

  I thought about the conversation I’d just had. So Lucille Whittier was convinced that the painting had been moved to another spot on the cluttered wall? I felt that this could be the clue I’d been waiting for, but the trick was knowing what to do with it.

  I wandered back to the wing chair to ponder my options when an overbleached blonde sidled up to me. She was mid-thirties with big hair and a great set of veneers and was wearing a mint green and hot pink Lily Pulitzer. She looked vaguely familiar, and I thought I might have met her before at a literacy fund-raiser at the public library.

  “Maggie,” she said, her voice tentative. She held out a hand with a flashy yellow diamond the size of a walnut. I half stood up to shake hands with her, and she immediately sat in the wing chair across from me. “Shalimar Hennessey. We met at that book event at the library, remember?”

  I managed to smile. “Yes, of course.” She treated me to a blinding Hollywood smile, and as my synapses connected, I did a quick mental rundown her.r />
  Social butterfly and ace tennis player. Rich, very rich. Bobby Hennessey’s net worth was rumored to be the same as the GNP of a small Latin American country. Vera Mae had described her as one of the “ladies who lunch.” Apparently, the biggest decision she has to make every day is whether she should play golf or tennis. Live-in help and a beach house in St. Thomas. (I stopped doing an inventory at this point. I was getting too depressed.)

  The most notable thing about her (besides her bank account) was the fact that she was married to Bobby Hennessey, a big shot in all the town’s civic groups. Bobby plays golf with Cyrus, our station manager, and I wondered whether Shalimar was going to hit me up for a donation. Bobby is on the board of a dozen different nonprofits. Or maybe she just wanted some publicity for her favorite charity?

  From the looks of her expensive dress, shoes, and jewelry, her pet cause was probably herself.

  “Were you a friend of Althea’s?” she asked. I had the feeling she was only saying that as an icebreaker and was biding her time, waiting to get to the real reason for chatting with me. She was perched on the edge of the wingback chair, like a bird of paradise in her colorful dress.

  “More of an acquaintance,” I said. “She was very kind when I first moved here, helping me get to know the town and find my bearings.” I smiled at the memory. Althea had brought over a homemade veggie casserole for dinner and a box of liver treats for Pugsley. Anyone who goes to that kind of trouble for a perfect stranger is a rare find, in my book.

  “Oh, yes,” Shalimar said quickly. “She was very kind. A lovely person.”

  I nodded, waiting. She paused, the way my patients used to do when they were revving themselves up for a big revelation and wondering how to make the segue. She nibbled at her lower lip for a moment, a small frown marring her finely chiseled features.

  She bit back a little sigh, and I stood up, ready to head out. She noticed me reaching for my purse and blurted out, “Actually, if you have a second, there was something else I wanted to talk to you about.”

  I sat back down. “Sure, go ahead.” I gave her an encouraging smile, and she flushed a little. She was definitely anxious or embarrassed about something, but what?

  “I’m . . . um . . . I’m just fascinated by the time capsule ads you’re running at the station. And you’ve had some great guests talking about the event. I caught your show with Professor Grossman. It was brilliant.”

  Time capsules? She’s fascinated by time capsules? And she thinks Grossman is brilliant? I was taken aback but kept my expression neutral. “I’m glad you’re enjoying them. The time capsule shows have been a big hit at the station. We’ve gotten a lot of calls from listeners, and there are some positive responses on the WYME message boards. It seems this topic has really struck a chord with everyone.”

  She widened her hazel eyes a little, still focusing on my face. It was a little unnerving, but she seemed to be waiting for me to say more, so I went on. “I think it’s a really popular subject right now, with all the talk about whether or not the town should go in for expansion or preservation.”

  Shalimar blinked twice. “I don’t quite follow you.” She was no Einstein, I decided. “Expansion? Preservation?”

  I took a quick peek at my watch. I really needed to be heading back to WYME to get ready for my afternoon show. “Local development. I just meant that the time capsule represents what life was like in Cypress Grove half a century ago. Life was quieter and simpler back then. And if you read the editorials in the local paper, you know that a lot of folks would like things to stay that way.”

  “Really? I’d never thought of that angle. I think progress is good, but maybe some people are locked into the past.” A long beat while she inspected her apricot, too-perfect-to-be-real fingernails. “So have you come up with any inside information about what’s inside the time capsule? Did anyone think to keep a list of the contents when it was buried?”

  I breathed out a little sigh. “I wish they had. We certainly haven’t been able to locate one. It would be wonderful if we could find one somewhere. As you know, all the courthouse records and the newspaper files are gone from that time. Everything was destroyed in a fire. So it’s pretty much guess-work, trying to imagine what’s in there.”

  She nodded. “Yes, I heard. Tragic about the records,” she added. “All that history down the drain.” Another pause. “What’s going to happen to the items in the time capsule? When it’s opened, I mean.”

  “I have no idea. I suppose if there’s anything of real value, it will be returned to the proper owner, or their family. And I guess the rest will be put on display, maybe here at the historical society.”

  “Sorry to interrupt. I left my BlackBerry here.” Nick smiled and reached down to retrieve the BlackBerry from the end table.

  “Nick Harrison, right?” Shalimar asked in a throaty voice. She stretched her arm straight out and extended her hand like she was Scarlett O’Hara and Nick was one of the Tarleton twins, coming to call on her.

  “Er, yes,” Nick said, looking surprised. He shoved the BlackBerry in his pocket, ready to take off. He shook hands with her and then stood there, awkwardly shifting from one foot to the other.

  “Shalimar Hennessey.” She flashed him a high-beam smile, and her lips quivered like Pugsley’s do when he sees a liver snack. “I just love your articles. They’re the first thing I read in the Gazette every day.”

  “Well, um, thank you. That’s good to hear.” Nick shot me a “What’s going on here?” look.

  “Shalimar is quite the history buff, and we were just talking about the time capsule ceremony.” I raised my eyebrows to let him know I didn’t buy it, either.

  “Ah,” Nick said, clearly stalling for time. “The time capsule ceremony.”

  “I’d love to hear your theory on what’s inside it,” Shalimar gushed. “I bet you have some wild ideas, being an investigative reporter and all.”

  “Actually, Maggie has done more research on it than I have,” Nick said, passing the buck. He sneaked a peek at his watch. I knew he was on deadline and needed to get to the Gazette as soon as possible. “I’d love to stay and chat, but duty calls—”

  Shalimar waved her hand. “Oh, I know what it’s like. You reporters are always running here and there.” Nick smiled and started to edge away, when Shalimar put out an arm to stop him. “I have a great idea. Why don’t you and Maggie come out to the house for dinner tomorrow night?” Her tone was soft and wheedling as she twirled a lock of flaxen hair around her finger.

  Is she flirting with him? Is she up to something? I wondered. Nick cut his eyes to me, and I gave a tiny nod. Why not go and see what it was all about? I knew he was tempted by the idea of a free dinner, and I’d heard the Hennessey mansion outside town was a showplace. I wouldn’t mind seeing it.

  “Then we can kick back and talk with no deadlines hanging over you. Wouldn’t that be fun? Bobby can fire up the grill, and I make a mean margarita.”

  “That’s very nice of you,” I said. I gave her a wide smile. “Nick and I can drive over there together.”

  “Wonderful,” Shalimar said, clapping her hands together. “Tomorrow at six?”

  “We’ll be there,” Nick told her.

  I grabbed my purse, and Nick filched three ginormous brownies from the buffet table when he thought nobody was looking. As soon as we were out the front door, he leaned close and said in a low voice, “What the hell was that all about?”

  I shook my head. “I have no idea. But Shalimar wants something. I’m sure of it.”

  “More than my charming company?” Nick said.

  “Count on it.”

  Chapter 20

  It was nearly one o’clock by the time I got back to the station, and my first priority was to talk to Vera Mae. To my surprise, I spotted Chantel in the break room, drinking coffee and reading the Palm Beach Post as I hurried down the hallway. She lifted a hand in greeting and waggled her fingers at me, her gold bracelets jangling. She looked absorb
ed, probably trying to figure out a way to snare some more publicity for herself.

  I managed a thin smile and continued straight down the corridor to Vera Mae’s office. I was in no mood to chitchat about the spirit world with our resident psychic. I had some serious sleuthing to do, but first I had to find out whether Chantel was going to be a permanent fixture here.

  “Hey, girl, what’s up?” Vera Mae was at her cluttered desk, sorting through some promo material on the time capsule. It looked like all our local sponsors were trying to get into the act and were coming up with some wacky giveaways. “Take a look at this, Maggie. I wonder if it’s legit.”

  She handed me a sixty-second spot for Sidney’s Dry Cleaning. Sidney was offering a year’s worth of dry-cleaning services to anyone who could answer a question about the contents of a time capsule buried in Peru.

  “Do you suppose he’s making that up? Who knows if there’s a time capsule buried in Peru? And how would he know the right answer?” She gave a little snort. “If you ask me, Sidney Truett is as crooked as a pretzel. The last time we ran a contest for him, he made sure his brother-in-law won. I complained to Cyrus about it, but nothing happened.”

  I skimmed over the copy and handed it back to her. “I wouldn’t worry about it. It’s probably a trick question. The Peru time capsule probably doesn’t even exist, and no one’s going to bother entering. I bet everyone’s on to Sidney and his games.”

  A sudden thought flashed through my head. What if the Cypress Grove time capsule didn’t exist, or was empty? I thought of Geraldo Rivera opening Al Capone’s vault all those years ago. After all the hoopla, the vault was empty. Still, it was unlikely that the town’s time capsule would be empty, wasn’t it? I let the thought drift away; there were too many pressing things to consider.

  “You look worried, sugar.” Vera Mae’s voice snapped me right back to the present. She was giving me an odd look as if I’d zoned out for quite a while.